


Peace & Quiet

by yoolee



Category: Samurai Love Ballad: PARTY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Lingerie, Modern Era, Saizo is both the best wingman ever and the trolliest, Shower Sex, if you squint and look sideways Kenshin's in here too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoolee/pseuds/yoolee
Summary: It's not that Saizo doesn't appreciate Yukimura's enthusiasm for life in general, but sometimes a guy just wants some peace and quiet. And the best way to distract his favorite friend and get some solitude? Send Yukimura's little lady some lingerie, and let HER keep him busy. Modern-verse gratuitous PWP





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on tumblr, where a silly reincarnation AU got away from me with the help and encouragement of some awesome folks in the fandom.

The first package had only taken a few hours to show up.

They hadn’t been  _fighting_ , exactly, but nonetheless, it had been blisteringly apparent to you that Saizo was at his limit for dealing with your…perhaps at times overly earnest fiancé. That he had deigned to openly show his annoyance had been the first indicator. That he had disappeared completely as soon as Yukimura turned away to answer a teammate’s question  was the second.

That the delicate, luxuriously expensive contents of the delivered package fit  _perfectly_ was the third.

You turned in the mirror, watching silk cling and curve like a second skin. 

It ought to bother you, you supposed, that he  _knew_ , but, well, it was Saizo. Of  _course_  he knew. Just as you knew that it had been him, despite the absence of a note, or a return address, or any other indicator the sender had been anyone but a shadow. No, aside from silk and delicate tissue paper, perfumed with the signature floral scent of the Uesugi Exclusive collection (Even their department store brand was an indulgence for you—mostly because if it did the job right, it usually didn’t survive for a second round and who had that kind of disposable income—but you could spend a month’s salary and still be unable to even  _find_ , let alone  _afford_  the luxurious, couture silk of their exclusive line) the only other item had been a schedule.

 _Yukimura’s_  schedule.

With two less-than-subtle workout time slots highlighted.

You considered the full-length mirror again, indulging in the impulse to slide your hands down your waist and hips in admiration. A simple movement, turned to sin in silk by the artful arrangement of assets in a flawlessly fitted ensemble. 

On the  _one_  hand, helping your fiancé’s best friend manipulate him to get a break in which to take a nap or something seemed…well exactly like it sounded.

On the other hand…you turned again, unable to stop the sigh of satisfaction.

Right. Focus.

On the  _other_ hand…you couldn’t  _prove_ it had been Saizo that sent it. Not officially. And even if you  _called_ the Uesugi offices to ask, they respected their clientele too much to reveal those sorts of things.

And it wasn’t returnable, anyway. You’d sighed over glossy photoshoots enough to know that.  

And Yukimura  _had_ been spending all that time working so hard…you missed him. And…he probably missed you too, surely, he just got so  _focused_ before a big match.

And you looked  _killer_.

You bit your lip in thought—and found that even  _that_ , a simple expression of consternation, became a bed-ward beckoning if you tilted your chin, and let your hair fall over simple, barely-there straps…

 _Screw it_. (Literally, you supposed, grabbing one of the orange, oversized shirts kept in your apartment, belting it as a dress and sliding your feet in shoes you could get off quickly).

You paused one last time to glance in the mirror, admiring the now-invisible assist one last time with a smile as delightfully, deliciously wicked as you felt.

Yukimura was going to get his workout. 

(And Saizo was going to get his break).


	2. Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, PWP. Yup.

When half (give or take) of the Sanada ten braves came pouring out of the Takeda Corp’s training facility, duffel bags over their shoulders, joyful jostling as raucous and familiar as ever, you  _almost_ hesitated.

For half of a step, you thought this was absolutely ludicrous. You should be at home, prepping for your shift at the restaurant that evening. You should be going over menus. You should be checking deliveries. You should  _not,_ under any circumstances, be standing in front of the privately sponsored training facility, gripping your fiancé’s schedule ( _conveniently_ highlighted, for this time slot) wearing nothing but casually belted shirt dress, and…

 _And_.

That was the sticking point, wasn’t it? The  _and_ of what you were wearing, hidden beneath the well-loved (and well-worn) dress, picked mostly for its ability to be removed quickly. Silk and lace, sin of the sweetest kind against your skin, from an exclusive Uesugi collection. You  _had_ been wearing one of his old, burnt-orange training jerseys over it, and been halfway down the stairs of your apartment building, but—

But he was a Sanada.

It was easy to forget that, sometimes. He was so natural, so easy, so very  _yours_ , that you could forget, for awhile, that he belonged to the Sanada family first. Not that his  family wasn’t every bit as welcoming as they could be. They were. His brother (mysterious and gentle, but somewhat inscrutable, in a way that made you feel a bit like a cup of cream near a watchful cat) and his father (stern-faced, sweet-souled, as quick to scold on spreadsheets as he was to challenge you to Scrabble) were wonderful. But people  _watched_ families like the Sanada. And after they watched, they clicked velvet tongues behind pearled fangs, and judged. Every one of the Sanada, every one – and their extended family, because you knew to your bones, that Takeda Shingen  _was_ family no matter what blood was or wasn’t shared – would defend you, and your career choice and your upbringing and all of it until their dying breath. But that didn’t mean you had to go and give anyone fuel for them to have to defend  _against_. There was no reason to let their tongues wag about the younger Sanada’s bride-to-be looking sloppy and unkempt in her dash to…well.

 _Well_ , you thought again, and closed your eyes, tried to tell yourself to be mortified, because then maybe you wouldn’t walk in there and do just what you were dashing off to do, because respectable little ladies did not…distract and seduce their future husbands because their future husband’s best friend bought them lingerie for that express purpose in order to get a nap in instead of training. (Probably. That was your working theory on what had happened anyway, because who else would send you an unmarked package of expensive lingerie, perfect to you size, with no note or explanation except Yukimura’s schedule?) You didn’t know for sure about the behavior of respectable ladies, you really only knew one or two—though now that you thought about it, you were quite certain of Oda Oichi wanted to have her way with someone in a utility closet, Oda Oichi  _would_ have her way with someone in a utility closet, and look classy as all get out while she fit it into her schedule, gliding out after to fix her lipstick and stride straight out kick ass in a corporate meeting, and no amount of tongue wagging would deter her.

Not that you were going for utility closet, but, a private locker room probably wasn’t all that far off.

(The part of your mind that was nervous and slightly hysterically embarrassed thought this was a fine time to acknowledge that it  _was_ a gym, you wouldn’t be the first to take a pounding).

Your eyes snapped open, and you saw yourself in the glass doors, cheeks rose pink with a blush, hair down and loose, eyes and lips darkened, just a bit, with the cosmetics you rarely used because who would see in the kitchen? A flower-print denim dress, with its simple lines and long row of shimmering white buttons, the ribbon-tied heels, demure and sweet with the dress, but with what was  _under_ …

Just the memory of how it felt, opening the box, unfolding the lavender, perfumed tissue paper, gliding your fingers over the delicate silk…your fingers moved of their own volition,  brushed your hip, knowing what was kissing your skin under the denim, and reveling in it.

Yup.

Hesitation gone.

The doors slammed open. You jumped, as the even more of his team and their self-proclaimed manager poured out, and aforementioned manager—the youngest, though he got taller every day—saw you immediately. The joy that wrapped around your name was so genuine you couldn’t help but respond in kind. “Sasuke!”

He didn’t waste any time before chattering— _got that from Yukimura_ , you thought, because Saizo always considered things before he spoke aloud, and they were the two the boy most clearly tried to emulate. “Are you here to cheer Yukimura up?”

You blinked, heart going cold, and your hands clenched as your chest squeezed, “Cheer him up? What happened? Is he okay?”

Sasuke immediately backpedaled, alarmed at the distress in your face, “Nonono, Sensei didn’t show up so he’s just…Oh.” He trailed off slightly, then tapped his chin thoughtfully, something sharp and smart and mischievous— _that_ was Saizo—making him look suddenly older than he was. He nodded, apparently having decided something for himself.  _Oh dear_.  “You  _are_ here to cheer him up. Sensei sent you, huh?”

You felt your cheeks burn, and did your best to give him a  _look_ , the same one you’d give Yahiko when his hands reached for a tray of hors d’oeuvres intended for table six. The look worked really  _well_ on Yahiko, you thought with despair as Sasuke only grinned more broadly. He wasn’t wrong, but you dearly hoped for the sake of his innocence he had absolutely no idea just  _how_  you intended to cheer your fiancé up. He shouldn’t, of course, but Sasuke had a disconcerting habit of knowing far more about topics than he ought.

From the suspicious confusion he eyed your blush with, you decided you were safe on this particular account. With a gameful, probably guilty smile you managed to squeak, “Er. Yes,”  _Change the subject!_ “Be safe getting home, okay?”

He rolled his eyes at the request, and you sighed at his flippancy, but he waved and bounced off in direction of the apartment he shared with Saizo, as he called over his shoulder, “He’s all the way in the back! Only one left, since Sensei didn’t show.”

You nodded absently, and found your feet were moving, having apparently decided for you that this was a thing that was going to happen. You made your way through the other obligatory greetings with the braves, brushing off their good-natured ribbing with a distracted smile, even as you quietly appreciated their comfort in doing so. It made you one of them. Silently, you promised next time you came by you would prepare some after-workout treats for all of them  but for today, there was only one person you wanted to treat, and you slipped through the glass doors on a mission.

As you made your way through the gym, it was hard not to be impressed as always with just how  _much_ Shingen had managed to economically cram into the space. Two tracks - one on the upper level, one on the first, looped around multi-use courts, rows of cardio equipment hooked up with TVs and racks of weights that guilted you with the reminder of your own neglected fitness routine. It was sparkling clean, but industrial, with ducts undisguised, and cheerful murals of red tigers painted directly on concrete. You could hear the low hum of factory strength fans - air conditioning was generally eschewed, but the fans kept the air circulating and, you wrinkled your nose slightly, at least  _helped_ to dissipate the lingering scent of raw, stale sweat, detectable even over the astringent citrus of cleaning products sprinkled about to wipe the machines with when one was done with them. The building was quiet, except for distant beats that guided your ears and path further back.

You followed your ears and Sasuke’s directions. The music wrenched up in volume when you passed through the last hall, until  the air was positively drenched in guitars and banging drums, a mix of upbeat songs that skewed from classic rock to kpop (though, notably, lacking in current top hits - after Saizo had explained the more suggestive lyrics of a summer hit Yukimura had been appalled. You didn’t have the heart to tell him about the rest of his playlist.)

The sheer volume of sound emanating from the speakers made your footsteps silent, and you had a moment all to yourself of watching while he failed to notice your approach. A jolt of sheer appreciation went straight from your spine to your gut at the sight of him, skin gleaming, shirt soaked, laying back on a bench, feet flat on the floor, holding an unracked bar with weights you could barely see around. You would have never thought, before Yukimura, that a man’s arms could be beautiful, but as he took a breath, straightened his arms, and lowered, and you watched the tendons bunch and curve under the rivulets of sweat, the simple jolt warmed into something considerably more lingering. After a quick glance upward in gratitude–to a higher power, capricious best friends who arranged for you to walk in on this, the universe, it was hard to say–you hummed, waiting for him to finish his set before looming over him with a smile. You saw his surprise, but leaned down and closed your eyes before he could ask why you were there, pressing your lips to his in light, sweet greeting.

For a second, you floated. He was warmer than usual, you could taste salt, and let yourself sigh at the sweetness of it nonetheless, even as you pulled away to let him sit up. Which he did a bit too enthusiastically, scrambling to do so and banging his head on the weights in his haste– “Ouch–ah, shit!”

Your hands flew to your mouth in startled dismay, “I—oh my gosh, Yukimura! Are you–?”

He sat up more carefully this time, ducking under the bar and swinging his legs around as he rubbed his forehead sheepishly and switched the music off, “Whoops. I’m alright. You surprised me.”

“Sorry–” You started, but he caught your hands, pulling them away from where they’d flown in alarm, and pressed a kiss quickly and gently to your lips, before pulling back with pink cheeks.

“Don’t be.” He smiled bashfully around the mumble, almost guiltily, and his eyes darted away as his hand patted around for something. You saw a small towel and handed it to him, along with the mostly empty bottle of water next to it. He accepted both gratefully, gulping the latter down before seeming to realize the situation was unexpected. “What’re you doing here?” He blanched, and added hurriedly, “I mean not that I’m not happy to see you! I’m always happy to see you!”

You found you couldn’t  _quite_ get out the coquettish seduction line that came to mind at that, so you settled for, “I wanted to see you.” Suddenly nervous, you found that you couldn’t hold his earnest, blue gaze, and so instead you eyed the bench he’d been laying on and was wiping down with hurried strokes. All that did was give you  _ideas,_ and you stumbled around searing cheeks, “I, well, wanted to show you something…”

“Are you okay? You sure are flushed.”  Your eyes flew back up to him and found he was  _very_ close, hand on your forehead.

 _Oh sheesh, Yukimura._ “Yes, I–”

“Gimme a few to shower, okay? And you can show me then–”

“ _Yukimura!”_  Too late. He’d slipped away from you in his concern for your health, long stride carrying him to the locker room with far greater speed than you could even consider at the moment. You gaped in the general direction of his absence, and groaned into your hands. Okay. So, your vixen act needed some work. “Oh, Yukimura,” You mumbled, and sighed. Time to regroup.

You took a deep breath.

You could do this. It was just like following a recipe.  _Step one, gather the ingredients_. Another slow, calming breath—not that it did much, with the lingering warmth of his brief kiss—and you marched into locker room after him, side-stepping the discarded t-shirt and shorts, and poked your head into the showers. You put your hand on the door to his stall, but didn’t pull it back, calling over the divide, “Mind if I join you?”

You had to bite back a smile at the sudden clatter of something being dropped, but he recovered nicely. His head poked around the divider, scarlet as yours, and you couldn’t help another sigh of appreciation at the sight. Soaking wet was a good look on him. Not that he had a  _bad_  look, but. He stuttered for a moment, clearly torn between his unshakable sense of gallantry and the general appeal of your offer.  He managed, “You’ll get wet.”  
  
If you’d taken a second to think, it might not have come out of your mouth, but with him standing there, hair dark and dripping, the memory of his shoulders stretching, muscles bunching, the thought of watching water dance down the grooves of his abs, it just fell free, “I already am.”  
  
A blank stare, naturally, and he tilted his head with a, “Huh?”  
  
It was such a perfect reminder of who you were with that you giggled, and felt some of your nerves ease.  _Just like a recipe_. Ingredients gathered. Step two…cooking metaphors briefly failed you, but he was watching you, and you decided,  _Step two, turn up the heat_. Though your fingers shook, you undid the buttons of your dress, and rolled your shoulders to let it fall to reveal just what you had wanted to show him, and knew it was worth the look.

Dark flowers in some indefinably deep, rich, color that shimmered like black but wasn’t quite, looped in lace over sheer silk, and not much of it, hugged your skin like sin and a kiss, artful and effortless. Standing in heels and lace, you turned slightly, so he could the full effect of the ensemble, the allure of art and assets displayed at their best.

You watched it happen, eyes focused on his face as it changed. First, the embarrassed intrigue that lingered before your dress fell to the floor. Second, the pure, genuine joy at your presence, that light that always made your heart stutter, made you feel  _treasured_. Third, the blank, sweetly stupefied blink as it registered what you were wearing, and (you could swear over the water you heard a switch flick), fourth— _oh._

 _Sweet_  stripped away straight into a blue-eyed storm, just long enough for the shower door to swing open and your breath to hitch before his hands were wild in your hair and his lips were on yours.  _Step three,_ you thought _, oh boy._  For a shimmering moment, you tasted only his lips, and then he devoured you, and the long, low whimper the poured from you was a sound of sheer surrender. When your knees shook he caught you, swept you up into his arms and against him. Your arms clung to his slick shoulders, still gritty with salt, the sound of the water distant to the roar of need and your shared gasps. His mouth was searing heat that rushed to your bones, flooded your senses with the scent of him—sweat and  soap and  skin and something that was Yukimura alone. Your hands tangled in his wet hair, you slid your fingers through until you found traction and gripped, and though it was far from your intention, the pressure snapped him back to himself.

He pulled back, and you both took a moment to breathe, your eyes locked on his, wide and blue, apology swimming as earnestly in them as ardour had a moment ago. “Sorry–I–sorry–you–gragh…” He squeezed his eyes shut.

The shower was still running, you thought through the daze.

Yukimura took a breath. His eyes were still closed.

 _Precious_ , you thought through the lingering haze and heat of his kiss, and brushed his cheek with your hand, deciding it was okay if you had a silly, sentimental smile on your face if he wasn’t going to look.

He took a breath. “You—ah. You, um.”

Mischievous, you let your fingers play with the damp strands of his hair. “Yes?”

Another breath, and those beautiful blue eyes opened, dark and focused. You shivered against the heat of him, sigh of need ghosting past your lips. He looked calm. “You look…” his turn to sigh, and your heart thrilled at the shakiness of it. “I don’t…I’m trying to think of a good word,” the intensity faded into a sort of unhappy frustration, and you bit back a smile. “I don’t think there’s a word in the world good enough for how…” he swallowed, and his eyes finally lowered, only to yank back up to your face, voice a tangled, resigned whisper as language descriptors failed him, “…good you look.”

Gently, as though you were spun sugar and glass, he set you down, breath hitching as he spent a little more time looking this time. You did your share too, and decided there were few sights on this Earth as pleasant as your fiancé, soaking wet and without a stitch on, love and goodness in his beautiful eyes and heart.

You smiled at him, pleased, and he groaned, followed by a sheepish laugh as he reached for you again.

His hands, featherlight, shook against your back, fingers running the length of it in silent admiration, resting on the silk they found at last and brushing it gently, as though too much force would make it disappear. You shuddered at his touch, and leaned in, pulling him back to meet his open mouth with yours.

Easy, sweet. The heat was shimmering promises, a slow, strong burn as his hands traced slowly up, brushing against the silk with interest, but reserving reverence for your skin alone, as his thumbs skimmed under your chin and rested on your cheeks. Your own followed a similar path, sliding up his chest before resting lazily around his shoulders.

He wasn’t greedy. Even as you craved, he didn’t take, only sought, and you gave freely, whimpering against him. He drew you closer, deepening the gentle, sweet kiss as you went pliant.

Until you both heard the door bang open, and the sound of whistling reached both your ears.

You jumped, and slipped on the wet floor, but Yukimura was already moving to sweep you up and into the still-running  shower, and your legs closed around him in instinct as he shoved the stall door closed behind.

Mortified, you whispered, “I thought—“

“Ssh!” He demanded, hand clapped over your mouth, as his other supported your weight, squeezed, and obligingly, you ducked your head into the crook of his shoulder, pressed your hands against his chest, heart skittering even as his pulsed with equal speed beneath your fingers.

The warm water sent rainbows into the steam as you both held your breath. It was a strange sensation—warm water and hot skin, the silk and lace that wrapped around you soaked to sheer, your ribboned heels drenched and wrapped tight around your lover’s waist, and—

The contact was irresistible. You shifted against the heat beneath you, let your tongue run over the hollow of his neck as a way to stop yourself from making a sound, and let your teeth graze the spot next. Yukimura shuddered, and you  _felt_ him respond, felt the rumble of his low, sworn curse in the fingers splayed on his chest before it formed in sound from his lips. The whistling subsided, door banging again as the intruder apparently retrieved whatever they had left and exited again, and you glanced up to find Yukimura’s turbulent, silent blue stare waiting.

 _Storm warning_ , you thought, and his free hand brushed one of the silk flowers, then the lace, transparent next to it, and you heard him take a breath, and thought  _oh I should do that too—_ and he was kissing you again.

This time there was no floating. You careened, crashed, desperate, as the spark lit your blood and swamped you with staggering need—a battlefield in the pouring rain as the water streamed over you both, stealing your breath as surely as you stole one another’s. Touch, taste, take, your body against him, hands dragging to his dripping hair, and this time he didn’t stop, just tossed you higher against him for a better angle, pressing you against the wall and taking you both out of the direct flow, inasmuch as he could in the space meant for one. Even now, his hands were gentle - insistent, everywhere, but soft on your skin, and kind.

You wanted more, needed more, and dragged your hands from his hair across slick skin, stretched soft over disciplined muscle, shoulders, back, hips, you dragged your nails across the firm, lithe lines and whimpered when he moaned. He let your weight rest against the condensation soaked wall, trusting your legs tight around his hips. Lowering his hands to your breasts, he finally tugged the cups of silk and lace aside, and the contrast from wet silk to calloused palms, hot and urgent, made you tremble, and beg. “Yukimura–please!” You lifted his head, hands light on his cheeks this time - a promise, always, that you wouldn’t break from his strength, and shifted against him, against the hardness and heat you wanted.

His eyes, clouded,  fluttered closed, but they opened once more and reflected in them was only you. He murmured your name, voice soft and low, thick with his own need, and one of his hands took its time trailing down you, until it encountered soaked silk, and a finger skimmed underneath the slick lace and into you, and you buckled as he stroked. Reckless and smoldering, his lips worshipped your shape, trailing anywhere they could reach, dragging the ache back into your bones and blood, sending it simmering into stark need. You tried to speak, to tell him something, anything, but all you managed was the breathless whisper of his name, sworn into his skin, as he brought you, tense and ready,  to the brink and over it in a shuddering wave of scorching heat. It broke through you, thrilling through every inch of wet skin, and you steeped yourself in it, in him, though your legs fell from his waist in dazed satiety.

You might have slid down as your unsteady heels slipped on the tiled floor, but he caught you, kissing you once more, stealing the sweet murmur of his name with strokes of a tongue that was greedy at last. “Yukimura…”

He pulled away, breathing hard as he rested his forehead against yours, hands shaking. You gasped, sucking in lungfuls of steam and air that simply hadn’t seemed worth it when the alternative was that unstoppably earnest, consuming kiss. His eyes closed briefly, seeking control, and then opened, found yours, and your heart pulsed at the love you saw there, the warmth, and your blood heated at the desire alongside it.

“…Can  I?”

You nodded, and managed a careless smile and breathless murmur, “That  _was_  the plan.” Well, what there was of it. That got a laugh, but you muffled it by pressing your lips to his, until he took them back to instead nip at your ears, pulling wet strands of hair away from your neck to kiss there next. He grinned sheepishly, and gripped your thigh as you lifted it, wrapping a leg around him once more, thrilled that the heels brought you high enough for him even if the water had ruined them beyond repair. He nuzzled your neck, and bit, and distantly you heard the lace tear. You couldn’t even spare regret for its loss as he thrust in, hard and deep, and the slow heat hit boiling, beat urgent and ravaging and insatiable.  Breathless, you rode with him, hands scrambling for purchase on wet skin. You squirmed against him and the wall, arched best you could and rocked, gasping as he did, and your hands dragged down the front of him, following the trails and droplets of water as they made their way through the grooves and dips of hard muscle. Your nails dug, body bucked, and still he drove you both on, his control frayed.

He shifted you both, pulling you hard around him and you nearly shrieked as you both went back into the spray and stream of water, but his teeth grazed your lips and sucked on the sound until it escaped in a moan. He thrust deep and you rose high, crying out as pleasure racked you to your core, again, again, and soon you clung to his shoulders, lost in the speed and sensation both slick and shattering. His face was flushed and fierce, dark tangle of dripping hair wreathed in steam. He bent, tongue sweeping across the peaks of your breasts, and you matched his pace, arching as he drove into you under waves of cooling water. The hand on your thigh tightened, the other tangled in your wet hair, gripping into a fist, and you responded in kind, pulling back, then meeting his open mouth with yours, sinking into the kiss, just as demanding, just as mad.

Pressed against him, you felt pulse and pound of his heart. All that energy, endurance, the goodness and the gentleness, the wildness and and the want of him - it was yours as you were his, shared freely and exultantly.  Your breath quickened,  you moved together, pressed your hungry lips to where you felt his pulse, and felt your name form alongside it even as you murmured his in a ragged breath. His hand lowered to where you joined, and when he found his release he took you with him in a tumbling, feverish fall.

This time when you slid down the wall, he went with you, pulling you into his lap in the limited space as you both attempted to catch your breath. You cuddled into him, pleased when his arms wrapped you in a hug as gentle as his passion had been consuming. He brushed your wet hair away once more, kissing your temple, and for a moment, you reveled in the simple satisfaction of languorous, boneless relaxation and being in the arms of the man you loved.

And then you realized that, without the exertion of…that…the water was  _cold_.

Not even Yukimura’s heat was enough to keep you there. Regretfully, you pulled away, and he mumbled a protest, but you grinned and found your balance on slick heels, as you adjusted the beautiful (and no doubt, unsalvageable) bra even as Yukiumura frowned at you, still sitting. You handed him the shampoo.

He blinked at you, owlish and sleepy. Your heart melted, almost enough to brave the chill.

“You were in the middle of something, I interrupted.” You felt a little guilty at the confusion on his features. But not guilty enough to stay standing in cold water, so you kissed him–an easy, sweet brush of lips that brought a shivering reminder of heat as he reached for you, to pull you back down, but you darted out of reach and around the stall door.

You heard him get to his feet. “Ah–hey! Wait!” A beat, and then, shyly, a mumbled protest, “Aren’t you going to help?”

You giggled and wiggled into his towel, immediately relieved with the warmth. It occurred to you to wonder where the underwear was, but venturing back into the shower to seek out the torn scraps held limited appeal, so you left them to your lover. “Nope. It’s cold.” You bit your lip. “I love you though.”

His head poked around, disappointment precious on his cheeks, but he leaned over, and you obliged, meeting the peck of his kiss with a silly, content smile as he ducked back in to get to work on the shampoo, “Love you too.”

—  
  
Later,  standing in front of the showers after his own (quiet, peaceful, uninterrupted) workout, Saizo sighed.

It was about what he expected, really, but surely the happy couple should have thought to ensure they didn’t leave any evidence. But then, he closed his eyes briefly, thinking of the little lord and his little lady…no, no of course neither of them would have remembered a detail like that. That would have required some modicum of self-restraint, so as to retain the ability to think after, and neither of them were capable of giving the other anything less than all, were they?  
  
With a faint smile, he quirked an eyebrow at his find.

What an awful lot of looking after his little lovebirds required.  
  
But at least, he supposed as he picked up the scrap of silk and lace with two of his fingers, and the door to the lockers swung open with the exuberant arrival of the other man himself, he got his share of entertainment out of it. Not to mention a priceless ticket for an  _extended_ session of solitude. Wiping his small smile into as bland an expression as was ever worn, Saizo tossed the torn underwear in the general vicinity of Yukimura’s face. “I think you dropped this, little lord.”  
  
As he clapped a hand on the shoulder of his scarlet, spluttering friend,  Saizo thought how  _nice_ it was to get some peace and quiet, and he walked out - whistling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are still some clunky bits and its a bit rushed, but, it was as good as it was going to get!
> 
> That said, If you like this piece, even a teensy little bit, go thank the lovely and talented han-pan over on tumblr, who NOT ONLY went through and edited (a task which included removing somewhere around 64 superfluous commas) to make it coherent and flowy and not as duplicative and repetitive as it was when she got it, but ALSO listened to me whine and bitch ramble about writing, AAAAAND provided a key plot point when I was stuck plus cooking metaphors. So go love on her please & thank you.
> 
> ALSO
> 
> I feel super obligated to say that if you are ever planning on having shower sex, use lube. We're just going to assume MC here doesn't need any help (and, she DOES have a lovely, naked, hard Yukkin to help with that) but, generally speaking, water actually dries ya up, so. Yes. Also. Be super careful >>;; OKAY GO FORTH AND BE SAFE AND GET CONSENT AND HAVE FUN.


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